You are not eating. Barely sleeping. The ring is everything to you; the
embodiment of your will, your love, your passion. Your devotion. Everything
that is you, and what has not yet been taken by the darkness or by the
circle of fire.
Your mind is occupied with troublesome worries. Worries that you believe are too complicated for me to understand. If I can remember correctly, Frodo, you were the one who stood up for me against such wild and idiotic accusations? Were they right all along?
Your face bears an ill look; your skin has a colour similar to the ones of the dead elven soldiers in the dead marches. Your blue eyes have a rueful depth to them; like dark pools of sorrow. Do you grieve what we have come to be, my Frodo? Do you regret it all?
I crawl up to you where you sleep under the oak tree. I can hear your soft whispers to the ring when you caress it and a fresh sting of jealousy darkens my thoughts for a moment while listening to your murmurs. The wind of the night rustles your fine curls and I stop listening but for a second, when your voice pitches in that way it always does when the nightmares grasp your mind and you suddenly clutch the grass under you.
I slowly put an arm around you from behind, and I feel how your body tenses; and then relaxes. I bury my nose and face in your hair to breathe your scent, your skin; and I let my free hand caress what is left of your clothes to feel the ragged cloth under my fingers. You are still here. Though I have never seen you so miserable, so vulnerable, so mean, vicious. So loveable, precious and dear.
I colour your hair with my tears. Your face with my kisses. Your body with my hands.
I can smell the faint scent of elderberries in you hair, and I don't care if it's my torn memory that is having a go with me, because it is you I smell. It is your skin I stroke, kiss and wet. They said that you were beautiful when you were young. With an elven perfection, blended with the nobility of the Brandybuck heir, you won the regards and respect of the people of the Shire. Even if only for a while. They said that you succumbed to evil. To the madness that they believed was hiding in your heart.
Now, I know your heart. I cradle it in my hands when you falter. I see it in your eyes when they glisten of unshed tears. I feel it in you when I press your body against mine, and the drum in your chest pounds with such a fierce and steady rhythm behind your delicate ribs.
You stir next to me and I fear that my sobs may have woken you up. You turn around lazily, as if no worries have entered your mind, and look at me. Your eyes shine with a glow that would even put the flames of Khazad dhum to shame, and press your lips against mine.
"My Sam," you whisper hoarsely, "your lips are cold."
The wind is coming in from the west now. I enfold you in my arms and wrap the wet and dirty cloaks around us to shelter and protect you. To feel that rhythm again. To finally share your heartbeats. Even if they are somewhat different.
Your mind is occupied with troublesome worries. Worries that you believe are too complicated for me to understand. If I can remember correctly, Frodo, you were the one who stood up for me against such wild and idiotic accusations? Were they right all along?
Your face bears an ill look; your skin has a colour similar to the ones of the dead elven soldiers in the dead marches. Your blue eyes have a rueful depth to them; like dark pools of sorrow. Do you grieve what we have come to be, my Frodo? Do you regret it all?
I crawl up to you where you sleep under the oak tree. I can hear your soft whispers to the ring when you caress it and a fresh sting of jealousy darkens my thoughts for a moment while listening to your murmurs. The wind of the night rustles your fine curls and I stop listening but for a second, when your voice pitches in that way it always does when the nightmares grasp your mind and you suddenly clutch the grass under you.
I slowly put an arm around you from behind, and I feel how your body tenses; and then relaxes. I bury my nose and face in your hair to breathe your scent, your skin; and I let my free hand caress what is left of your clothes to feel the ragged cloth under my fingers. You are still here. Though I have never seen you so miserable, so vulnerable, so mean, vicious. So loveable, precious and dear.
I colour your hair with my tears. Your face with my kisses. Your body with my hands.
I can smell the faint scent of elderberries in you hair, and I don't care if it's my torn memory that is having a go with me, because it is you I smell. It is your skin I stroke, kiss and wet. They said that you were beautiful when you were young. With an elven perfection, blended with the nobility of the Brandybuck heir, you won the regards and respect of the people of the Shire. Even if only for a while. They said that you succumbed to evil. To the madness that they believed was hiding in your heart.
Now, I know your heart. I cradle it in my hands when you falter. I see it in your eyes when they glisten of unshed tears. I feel it in you when I press your body against mine, and the drum in your chest pounds with such a fierce and steady rhythm behind your delicate ribs.
You stir next to me and I fear that my sobs may have woken you up. You turn around lazily, as if no worries have entered your mind, and look at me. Your eyes shine with a glow that would even put the flames of Khazad dhum to shame, and press your lips against mine.
"My Sam," you whisper hoarsely, "your lips are cold."
The wind is coming in from the west now. I enfold you in my arms and wrap the wet and dirty cloaks around us to shelter and protect you. To feel that rhythm again. To finally share your heartbeats. Even if they are somewhat different.